Ve fiktivním městě, mezi jehož zvláštnosti patří jednak to, že tam nikdy neprší, jednak každoroční velký svátek svatého Dyndy, jehož hlavním hřebem je rozbíjení vzácného porcelánu, vyvrcholí vzpoura synů proti otci - vládci rodiny i města. Pod fantaskní komikou děje skryl mistr černého humoru ozvěnu freudovského otcovského komplexu i prosťáčkovsky vyjádřené pocity existenciální úzkosti.
Novelist, poet, and critic Raymond Queneau, was born in Le Havre in 1903, and went to Paris when he was 17. For some time he joined André Breton's Surrealist group, but after only a brief stint he dissociated himself. Now, seeing Queneau's work in retrospect, it seems inevitable. The Surrealists tried to achieve a sort of pure expression from the unconscious, without mediation of the author's self-aware "persona." Queneau's texts, on the contrary, are quite deliberate products of the author's conscious mind, of his memory, and his intentionality.
Although Queneau's novels give an impression of enormous spontaneity, they were in fact painstakingly conceived in every small detail. He even once remarked that he simply could not leave to hazard the task of determining the number of chapters of a book. Talking about his first novel, Le Chiendent (usually translated as The Bark Tree), he pointed out that it had 91 sections, because 91 was the sum of the first 13 numbers, and also the product of two numbers he was particularly fond of: 7 and 13.
This is a strange one, even by Queneau’s standards. A full-blown Oulipo workout with extended monologues on fishes, spoof biblical verse, portentous literary ponderings and screwball farces, all written as a lipogram (missing the letter X, except in character names).
That about covers it. Except to express some disappointment. The novel is insanely creative, but the monologue chapters tend to the mundane, and the usual Queneau multi-character frolic-making grows tiresome, despite the manic plot about Pierre ousting his father as Mayor, his brother ousting him as Mayor, and the endless rainfall of the finale.
The cover is so glorious it’s still one to recommend, for readers comfortable in the arms of Perec and Mathews.
I now have a small stockpile of Queneau at my bedside, antacid for those with reading indigestion. This one was great, possibly my favorite so far. Not only brief (requisite after so many multi-volume, bloated contemporary works), but funny, profound, and truly weird, all at the same time. Each chapter is told in a different style, from a different pov, and they twine wonderfully around each other. Three brothers in a city called Home Town become engaged in a struggle for girls and power. I only wish my French was better, so I could have read the original.
Not only does Queneau manage a different literary style for each of the 7 chapters but he manages to create a uniquely odd, alien culture. He even manages to do this with some humour. Excellent
Six stars for the best chapter in the book that is, obviously, the pursuit of the father through the mountains for patricidal purposes, a chapter that can be read separately from the context of the book and which exposes the thoughts of the haunted father, as well as of the harassers, his children.
"And now here I am, running through the barren mountains with these bastards barking like idiots behind me."
"He tormented me too much, he humiliated me too much, he knocked me to the ground,"But I will throw him from the top of the mountain."I'll crack your head and spread your guts on the sun-burned rocks".
Some incredible passages (is it the 4th part that is the best --can't remember --it's the short part closer to the end). In any case, Queneau is a wizard and a natural and I look foward to savoring one of his texts about once every 3 or four years. Also, noticed that Ben Marcus seems to have ripped off some of his tone and style from this book.
I have learned never to go to a land where never rains. Even given the fact that this land may not exist in reality, it has some interesting characteristics that makes it similar to real world. One of them are the people that inhabits this fantastic place. They can remind us of our reality, this is why I think this is novel is a very good fable. My copy of this book is in romanian.
Mooolto difficile. Usando la dialettica di Queneau potrei dire "non c'hoccapitognente". Il capitolo della sorella folle (il sesto), però, vale il libro... Auguri
Hodně černý surrealistický a potrhlý humor. Četl jsem to kdysi pradávno, tak mě zajímalo, jestli se něco pocitově změnilo. Ne, je to stále stejně potrhlé a dobré i po tom půlstoletí.
I enjoyed this immensely. But I'm not sure I would suggest it to anyone that isn't well prepared for this experience. Closer to Calvino's Baron in the Trees for this very typically atypical Queneau. I can't imagine how difficult this must have been to translate and I'm a bit saddened by the fact that my knowledge of French is not currently at the level it would need to be to comprehend the tricks and turns that do net lend themselves to translation. If you don't like his post-Jarry pataphysical oddity and thinly fleshed characters - you will have the same issues with this. I don't mind admitting that near the end I ran out of interest in any focus on plot coherence. If there's anyone I don't mind taking me for a ride - it's Queneau. Basically - it's a tale of the old ways giving way to the new and young men that must destroy the father to come into their own. It's also about the differences between aquatic life, controlling life, lust, sculpture, muck, drinking, civic leadership, small town tradition and playing with the literary tradition of Rabelais through Jarry. Queneau is brilliant and odd and this is very unlike almost anything you've read by anyone not aware of pataphysical writing.
Sick of traditional reading? Scope it out and if you're not already familiar with Oulipo - I imagine this would launch most attentive readers down a really amusing path of literary discovery.
Per me Queanau è stato un autore chiave per anni. Questo libro lo avevo trovato usato durante un salone del Libro di Torino, e ancora oggi lo racconto ogni tanto. A ripensarci ora dopo anni direi che era un libro sul cambiamento climatico, cosa che non avrei osservato quando lo avevo scoperto. Il volume si basava su un dispositivo in grado di scegliere a comando il meteo, e quindi tempi in cui pioveva e tempi in cui il sole splendeva. Siamo in Francia ed è già questo la magia di questo volume. Queanau per me era il Calvino francese, e quindi anche qui non poteva mancare qualcosa di paradossale. Un romanzo forse un po' complesso soprattutto nella prima parte, ma che è poi impossibile lasciare da parte.